


Empty Words Are Evil

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Elemental Magic, M/M, Past Character Death, Pining, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reincarnation, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 03:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16077032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: A year's worth of cat and mouse, played between the mischevious sprite and the all-powerful god of thunder.





	Empty Words Are Evil

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the lovely jiggy, my bestie whom i love so dearly.  
> i will comb over this again though, i promise. some of the writing is a bit janky

Banquets were such a frivolous affair; the wine spread around from glass to glass could be blotted out but the smell would forever sink into Marner’s cotton tunic until his skin itched. Not that he wasn’t a social individual--it came with the title and the visage of a sprite crossing his legs as mortals kissed his feet--but the majority of the crowd pleasers remained the old, bearded gods with moustaches that dribbled down their front like seafoam. For many people, their graceful presence was the centrepiece that went with the gathering and ultimately, the reason to visit. Marner’s idea of entertainment, however, was something more lively and yet, he was swirling his drink in hand as he watched the other guests crank out snarls in his direction, basking in the rapture of the tapestries and arrival of a new year in Seneca.

There was nothing he could do to put a shine on the evening; he could fetch a marble basin, heat the river water over a fire, then proceed to douse the elders’ feet one by one and it wouldn’t make a difference--he would forever remain a pariah. They were stuck in their traditional ways, their poetic scribblings detailing him a being of mischief that should be castrated and left to live out his life trapped in a steel prison. He’d bet that if they _could_  exile him, he’d be walking a cobblestone road somewhere down south the day after tomorrow.

It wasn’t his priority to pucker his lips and play the part, especially not when he was jeopardizing his evening when he could be down on the mortal plane, knocking back cheap beer churn by novices. So he made a safe bet and set up camp by the buffet spread, fully intending to eat until bloated and then sleep it off during the formal introductions and winding speeches.

Many of the delicacies laid out had a smoky, rich flavour that burned the roof of his tongue. His all-natural diet wasn’t typically disturbed as he much liked his fruits, but the banquet would be an exception. Not necessarily a good one, but an exception nonetheless. In three hours his stomach would cramp, in a day he’d be throwing up the richness and it would be the punishment that fit the crime.

Gods of all ranks were keeping their distance, one going so far as to clip him on the shoulder come their desperate run to heaven’s know where. His response was to shout something back just to get their hair to stand straight, not caring that his childish remarks de-aged him five centuries. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to challenge the hierarchy and their prejudice, even if he couldn’t remember what exactly was spouted out of his mouth that made the woman round on him so vehemently. In less than a second though, he had a face-full of her stinking perfume and yellowed teeth.

Lip curled, she advanced on him until he was pressed up against the white tablecloth and looked about to slap some slur to his name when a large hand grabbed the back of her head and strangled the life out of her hair. She’d cropped it back, though the ribbon she used was much too easy to pull and the second it’d unwoven it was if she were a wild mare, trying to spit out the bit controlling her movements. Her eyes rolled back into her head as the blow registered, the rest in slow motion as her wrinkled skin peeled out of his line of vision and was replaced by an oily, youthful one instead.

The dark eyebrows said enough, should the quaking electricity running through the lady at Marner’s feet not finish the job. In less than five seconds, the almighty divine god of thunder Matthews had completely dismantled the poor woman and did so without remorse, him quite possibly being the classic undersell when it came to how much power he harnessed. It was amazing really, that despite his steps thundering like the sound of batons on a steel drum he’d snuck up on the both of them and harnessed control of the situation.

Having him so close that his plucked eyebrows imposed on Marner personally was not the objective that morning but there they were, facing off like two hyenas circling the same rotting carcass.

“She should apologize,” Matthews decreed, voice laced with a sporadic fizzle and crack that bolded every word. If he didn’t know any better, Marner would think he was trying to put up a grown-up act; his face was so contorted it looked as though he was doing everything he could to not smile.

“It’s fine,” Marner said. He didn’t particularly _like_ her but he did feel pity for how she convulsed between them like a fish out of water.

Matthews made to step closer, the electric current biting at Marner’s stuck out elbows, like a pair of bent-up chicken-bones. “Is it?” Matthews didn’t appear to consider that they were attracting a crowd of their own, goading at them from side to side as they gawked at the in-house entertainment. “I think it’s rather rude.”

“You came over from the grand council to settle fights on the playground?” Marner teethed at his lip. “A bit of a fall from grace, wouldn’t you say? I’m used to it, but thank you for the consideration.”

“You’re rather rude,” Matthews replied. “I’m sorry for trying to help.” Matthews turned on his heel, sandals shrieking against the slick tiles carved so dexterously underneath him.

The first specks of the guilt sunk in for Marner there, primarily because of out all the heathens, ruffians, and hypocritical immortal running hoops around him Matthews was likely the most tolerable. That was largely in part because he didn’t do much to take sides. Despite being labelled the “next big one,” as well as their go-to god for all things battles, Matthew was the most torpid individual he knew. So, it didn’t translate into hate.

He couldn’t just strut up and apologize though, that wasn’t his deal. Instead, he settled for second best and toiled after the straight-backed Matthews with the urgency of a flock of sheep being herded by wolves. He high-tailed his way up and around the spiralling walls, staircases, and parades of conceited little snobs until they were seated at a long table full of drunk old men, all cherry-red with the amount of blush powdered on their faces.

Matthews wasn’t the kind to make a grand entrance and it made Marner’s job a heck of a lot easier. His stocky, overblown form made for great cover even as Matthews punctually seated himself, appealing to the rest of the attendance by cocking his eyebrow and straightening his shoulders. It actually took until Matthews had made himself comfortable and reached for refreshments for the first of the main big guys to jot down Marner’s attendance, and they did so by making the most grotesque face possible.

Marner didn’t need their permission and he could care less if it was reserved seating. He took a chair for his own, plucked a cherry from its stem out of Matthews’ hand, and got comfortable as he barricaded himself against scandalized looks.

“You should not be here,” came the first complaint, forwarded with a hostility that no other god would receive. “Go home, child.”

“I thought it was your job to be welcoming.” Marner let the reply slip through his teeth like butter. His tongue rolled the cherry in his mouth, tempted to bite down but having more fun with being obscene as Matthews’ eyes trailed after the pinkish orb currently being squished by his morals. The god’s mouth was half-open, eyes slanted downward and managing to look both aloof and captivated by the disrespect aimed at his immediate superiors. Poor thing, so sheltered that a swear bubbling in the necks of his servants would make him flinch.

“Go home.” The second god rose up and placed both his hands down on the marble. From his fingertips swirled two miniature waterspouts that swept up the cutlery and plates, soaking through the thin sheet acting as a tablecloth and ruining the spread.

Marner snorted, leaning over so that the hair sprouting from the top of his skull stroked across Matthews’ cheek. “I’m here to apologize to your protege, is that not reason enough?” In any other scenario, he might dare to press a hand down on Matthews’ shoulder and bring the divine closer until their heartbeats trumpeted as one, but the twitch of the other god’s joints and the way his nails curved into the seat beneath spoke plenty.

“Leave!” a third roared, wind sweeping up behind him until the gusts of it threatened to take them all out of the room and discard their bodies on the pastures circling around the palace. “You do not respect us, and you do not belong.” At the sound of their fierce bickering, the guards stormed the table where the gauntlets and chalices were rolling across the stone, ownerless.

Putting up a fight was pointless, he’d apologized and harnessed control in all the ways he could. Marner used the last of his mischief still up his sleeve to headbutt Matthews and slip out of close range as the divine straightened. The guards tried to hook their spears around his arms but he was slimy enough to duck under them and make a grand leave behind some of the pillars that hid winding hallways from view.

He blew a kiss to Matthews just to pitch another reason for the god to be infuriated by him but as always, the young protege did nothing but absorb it with a singular blink. Not the reaction Marner expected, but with the food tossed aside, the cutlery ruined by the floor, and the ornament waterlogged, his deed was done.

 

Summer’s sticky, hassling humidity was something he’d be happy to live without. Fruit flies were beginning to outnumber immortals one by one and even the marshes were starting to dry. Crab apples were the only plant thriving because of how mercilessly the sun ratted down on the fields of gold corn, its wrath impoverishing the nation of people it simultaneously served. Around them, while people flourished with beautiful tanned skin, the crops withered and dried into a mushy pulp that dampened their sandals like dung.

The poor unfortunate souls working with plows and hoes dropped faint from lack of water; a civilization down by a former riverbed lamenting their lack of power as dust storms kicked up around them. Beside the dirt roads lay cattle carcass and red-hot bones, flesh having rotted away long ago. Could the people’s despair become rain, the leafless sticks that were once trees would be twelve feet underwater, swirling away as the thirsty earth drank its fill.

The elders cried that it was a necessity, a punishment, because of an error in the people’s artifactual demonstration for them--they’d used mint leaves with the garnish. How egocentric they were--their little temper tantrum hurt them all, especially the immortal beings not well-off enough to sustain themselves with the whole three people still visiting their shrines. A flowery means to say that Marner was coming to close to death, and that he and many others would spend the next few decades reincarnating after a scorching demise.

However, the elders were shrill and wouldn’t listen to reason despite how many held council with them serving a platter of grapes and fine cheese. Anyone speaking with them was wasting their time; the drought would not end until it had sufficiently killed off all that would oppose, scaring the remaining few into servitude with a bony finger pointing at their heart.

With all that said, they weren’t impenetrable; there were always a Matthews dressed in fine tunics and cloaks (masochist) walking the valley to survey just how many dehydrated sheep were kicked around the farmers’ fields. And that day was particularly fruitful, because Marner did intercept his walking path and catch the divine alone and vulnerable, perfect for toying with as a momentary distraction from the heat.

Marner trotted up to him, a cape of dirt and grass particles materializing behind him as if he were some wild stallion. To his surprise (or not), Matthews didn’t reciprocate as the average lacky would and kept up his pace, content with letting an unequal take stride beside him.

Many would take the submission as an honour as it said a great deal about their presence, but Marner saw it as an end to his own means. Matthews was like a child, still malleable and trusting. He came to the gods a blank slate to write their scripture and culture, which took decades of experience and lecturing. Until then, he was easy prey. Someone capable of so much and at the mercy of the lesser ones who’d been discriminated against for centuries.

Nothing was said between them as they walked; nature spoke loud enough for the both of them. That being said, words did sit at the bottom of Marner’s stomach and steam. He was ready to start panting like a dog if the skies didn’t open up soon and walking beside one such god that could make it all possible was like watching a sea of divines refuse to fork over a singular mug of water.

He couldn’t just ask, that wasn’t how things worked. Luckily, his crafty nature meant he had one or two ideas to pickpocket, all devilish but with the end game of having freshwater touch down on their pitiful landscape and rejuvenate the plants. Finally, he wouldn’t have to walk miles for food nor stare longingly at the ruins of his shrine. Matthews would be working for him in a matter of minutes whether he wanted to or not.

“The trees here are all dead or dying; you can see the beetles inside the heart of them, eating at the bark,” he spoke up, kicking pebbles with his sandals just to watch them scatter. “At this rate, the coming year’s trees and saplings won’t bear fruit.” His scrutiny of the trees around them was greatly over exaggerated; there were bark beetles inside but not nearly numerous enough to prove fatal.

Matthews didn’t stop walking. “That is the nature of things.”

“You’re an all-strong god though, Matthews,” he said. “Why, I’m sure you’d be hailed as a hero if you conjure hail. It’d strip the bark and kill the larvae and the trees would be able to recover. These will be the same people that will visit your shrine, should you not help them?”

Matthews’ nostrils widened as he took in a cavernous breath. “It has not hailed in these parts for decades.”

“Which makes it all the more recognizable as divine intervention.” He clapped his hands together. “Surely you’ll do what’s best.”

Matthews turned his nose down, the bridge gleaming with sweat. “They told me not to trust you, that you play games.”

“I play games,” Marner confirmed, “but this is as clear as the brook’s water. Look for yourself, if you do not trust me.” He knows Matthews won’t look, and as the disgruntled look displaces itself and finally slipped off of Matthews’ mug, Marner knew he won.

Thunder clapped from above and a sheet of freezing rain and hail plummeted down to strike the trees. The brunt force of it scraped the land, but from the icy shards, little droplets of water blossomed. In the sun’s demanding presence the crisp, jagged points deteriorated and softened, melting into water that, in a blink, had sodden the grass and made mud.

Marner took shelter under the root of a great oak that’d, in the short time of the drought, become injected with different species of fungi that checked the trunk in splotches of purple and blue. The displeasuring colours they radiated, the truth of a poison no god would touch, meant Matthews would never step close, and indeed, his hulking shape remained in the middle of the valley looking up at his misgivings and how it’d ended a summer-long period of despair. Already, the heavens above boomed, as if to ridicule him for his immaturity and how he fell for the oldest trick in the book.

Marner could just about open his trap and let a raindrop wet his dried tongue, and the moment was so glorifying no howl from the god opposed him could ruin it. Matthews wasn’t held captive by his trance for long; having come to his senses he was rightfully on the hunt for vengeance. What was once a tiny blip in the fields grew larger as it advanced on Marner.

As Matthews stomped, the arteries and veins inside his body released zaps, the quaking sensation needling up and conjuring a parade of puffy black storm clouds that promised enough rain to fill the valley like a jug.

If he stayed any longer, chances were he’d be bludgeoned to death five times over, so he took his leave, blowing another kiss that smacked Matthews on the cheek and culminated in a downpour that soaked them both to the bone.

 

Seemingly insatiable acres of mistletoe lobotomized the front gates of the council, planted to sit and look pretty but all too often clipping the wings and ornaments of those walking by. It’s parasitic little saplings dominated the flaky branches of the local birch trees, peppered with white berries that typically only grew closer to the cold season. Despite being a nuisance to many, Marner was infatuated with the shrubbery and how it flocked around him, granting him the perfect tree cover for when he was unfairly targeted by mortals and immortals alike that had their feelings hurt.

There was a branch of mistletoe he snapped at the centre palace gates on an off day, just because. It made his skin tremble as if icicle shards were running across him, plucking his moles and freckles one by one. For him, the opportunity was as ripe as a cluster of bulbous grapes. Many underestimated how a plant that trembled so sweetly could be the biggest nuisance on the planet, and he had just the idea of who he would use it on.

Matthews had picked up the slack after their little soiree, as he liked to call it. Beforehand, Marner could trace over his patrol routes on both maps and soil without trouble, but as the other divine’s training kicked in, he had less time to explore while translated into less time for Marner to “visit.” Not that Marner would’ve tried to engage so soon after flooding nearly half the country, but there was always a ripe opportunity to pluck at Matthews’ tailfeathers.

(They did see each other once though, when Marner was cooking out snails to swap with the palace meat. Matthews was an unfrotunate witness that, at the last second, turned his back and walked away, pretending he wasn't involved. Marner didn’t know how to interpret it, but it did clear Matthews for future pranks, hopefully with a better reception than the slaps he got for the snails.)

That afternoon, all the gods were all lined up outside one of the parish’s gardens, there to support one of the flora gods after an outbreak of a disease in her gardens had claimed the spring’s harvest of cornflowers and pansies. All the riot about a few rotting petals was ridiculous in Marner’s opinion; plenty of more conducive problems were out digging their heels into the surface but one woman cries wolf and all the council has to show up for moral support. It further validated their displaced priorities, leaving the true problems for the lesser-equipped to fix, like himself.

So, he was out to have fun. He dragged the mistletoe behind him up the hills until he reached the cleft they’d parked themselves on for their little support picnic. The hollow of the gardens meant he had a perfect spot to sit and look pretty, granting him a perfect view of the fruits spread out on long stalks of rubbery grass. The bushes and shrubbery, on the other hand, were great for concealing himself when he tred up the paths, perfect for when he found the ledge directly above Matthews and stretched his arm down to strike Matthews’ wings.

The feathery appendages did nothing more than twitch; Matthews must’ve been trying so hard to keep a straight face. Twigs were snapping, the little particles decorating the white like black stars on a white night sky. He tapped them again, watched a single feather shed and float daintily down to rest on the god’s shoes. Still, Matthews did not bend.

He had done a sufficient job at ignoring Marner’s little ruse, but it was time for action. Marner would not be ignored, not when he was there to be the intermission to whatever funeral the lady of flowers was pulling for her stupid pansies.

Marner sucked in enough oxygen so that his cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk’s, then blew out on the wood chips until little petals bloomed from their remains and flew out south, messing with Matthews’ hair as they fled the scene. The little practical trick did the job, Matthews was disturbed and looking up, eyes hardening as he pinpointed Marner as the culprit of the newly born flowers dancing around them.

The people around them were pecking at the display and chirping about his efforts but their words fell on deaf ears. It was all tied together with satin ribbon by how disgruntled Matthews was, his beady bird-like eyes nil in comparison to how his now decorated wings had unfolded and spread out in a display of power. He looked ready to spring up and use his veiny hands to grab both of Marner’s shoulders and crunch the skinny neck between them. If not that, then at least make it thunder so badly that earthquakes would open up and swallow him whole in a worm-clad grave where he’d later be reincarnated, shaped by clay and dirt.

Silver petals were still fluttering through the afternoon’s feather-light gusts of wind as he hopped over the garden’s many bubbling streams, chased away by the vile threats and Matthews’ sore expression.

 

He played many a trick on Matthews; with a god as receptive and straight-faced as him walking into so many terrible scenarios, it was a given. His favourite had to be getting up in the god’s face but that came with a discernible risk. Matthews was learning, as someone in his stature did, and at times it looked as though he’d lunge forward and pin Marner down, leaving him at the divine’s mercy for the first time in that particular life.

None it really came to being though, Matthews was the sharpened sword locked away in a glass display case. The owners loved to twirl it in their hands and inspect their craftsmanship but to use it in mock battle was blasphemy. Matthews was a product of many years of hard work and apprenticeship and although Marner was a heel, he wasn’t actually committing any crimes that would be worthy of a bruising. They let him be, shunned and forgotten in the crypts of their pantheon.

With no consequence, he got riskier; hung around Matthews’ domain and dyed the river water green when the god was out on council business just for laughs. The look on Matthews’ face when he returned and saw the waterfalls stemming from the perches’ above was the colour of seaweed had Marner laughing so hard he gave away his hiding spot, and then it was a manner of running with Matthews’ loyal hounds snapping at his feet, ordered to fetch but not capable of the instruction.

And then of course, there was the time Marner was curiously poking at his belongings while Matthews was on weather duty and uncovered the furred armour piece Matthews always draped across his shoulders, from something the divine had mercilessly killed and skinned the pelt of--he took great pride it in. It’d been seamlessly stitched too, although if it’d been Matthews’ work or outside help Marner didn’t know. The end result was a bundle of warmth that sucked him in and hugged him so tight he fell asleep in it.

Not technically his fault, although it did make for a rude awakening when Matthews’ booming steps declared him present, and he walked into the main seating area only to see his precious pelt on Marner’s body, so big it swamped him.

“Where did you get that?” Matthews demanded, his dogs growling at Marner from their place behind his legs. Marner rolled his eyes.

“You left it here,” Marner replied. “It looked so cold, I thought I’d warm it up for you.”

Matthews extended an arm, noticeably bare about the lack of clothing covering the biceps. “Come here and give it back.”

“Come get it.” Marner smiled, uncrossing and spreading his legs in preparation of another sprint. Matthews, as expected, didn’t move, still debating the dilemma at hand.

When Matthews did move, it was not so much a step but more a shuffle. His sandals slid against the stone floor, a shredding noise produced because of the electricity being insulated by the ground’s touch. Marner stood, still grinning ear to ear, still shielded by the fur pelt decking him from chin to groin.

It was supposed to be a stupid formality, a little game of tag before they went their separate ways. Marner wasn’t taking it seriously and _usually_ took the necessary precautions to ensure his safety, but that time he couldn’t account for the added weight of the armour he was donning. It was so prolonged length-wise that it wrapped around his feet and tripped him on his second step back, sending the world spiralling downward. Matthews stopped being the priority then, which was his first mistake. His second was taking his eyes off of the divine and that directly led to a large hand fastening itself around his wrist once his back smacked the ground, knocking the wind out of him.

Matthews had never gotten his hands on him before and with a grudge hanging over their heads like a laundry line, panic struck him cold. The stupid fur armour didn’t matter anymore; he never should have come into contact with a god so stupidly powerful and expect not to get burned; or electrocuted--the sparks burning finger-shaped holes into his skin were becoming too cumbersome to deal with.

Matthews, on the other hand, was just as surprised at having succeeded. Because they were both so preoccupied with the switch in their routine, Marner found the outing he’d wanted before lethal harm was done to his current body. Quick as possible, energy shot through his body and his limbs evaporated into thin air, replacing the humanoid shape with that of a mouse’s.

Without a second to lose, he scurried away. Finally free, he didn’t care that Matthews was left holding onto the sleeve of his own garments, Marner’s own clothing pooling around the spot he’d once been. All he cared about was the marathon run he’d committed to, all the way out of the levitating palace to oblivion where he could finally catch his breath.

 

Their last meeting wasn’t because of Marner’s plotting; after such a close call Matthews was off the hit list. Those who didn’t learn from their mistakes were bound to be smited with lightning, “those” being him. Instead, he’d spread merriment to other, less hostile people; those that could take a laugh and brush it off without looking as though they’d found horse dung under their chair. It was immensely more fun pulling a prank and knowing he wouldn’t be hung for it, which made him wonder why he’d sought after Matthews’ decree for so long.

Of his many victims, the lady of the swamp was probably the most like Matthews. Oh, there were differences. For example, she could crack a smile like nobody’s business. She liked taking vacations and revelled in her spare time. It’s just, she had a way of doing things. Her scowl for one thing, was so much like Matthews’, and seeing it didn’t come at the cost of his safety, which he considered a bonus. She also had a pair of marvellous wings, although they weren’t feathered and flexible to the touch. The branches she’d used to fasten them splintered daily, and the swamp leaves and goop squished, leaving a trail of decay in her wake. If he closed his eyes though, it was easy to pretend.

Although she was good company, Marner didn’t account for the revenge aspect of their relationship. He thought it’d be funny for her feet to stick to the sludge of the swamp she so dearly loved, forcing her to skate with her bare feet to the other side. That shouldn’t have translated into her turning the trick on him, catching him by surprise before breakfast one day by fabricating long thorny brambles that snaked around his ankles and pulled him kicking and screaming down the valley.

It wasn’t because he couldn’t take a joke. No, not at all. It was that they were in public and that he never tried to physically hurt his victims. He used mud, squishy, pliable mud. She used barbs that bit around his feet and pressed him down so roughly that he’d spat up dirt and bugs. There were so many thorns creeping around his legs that slicing them off would take hours. The swamp lady, on the other hand, fled with a cackle crawling up her throat, leaving him alone to deal with his predicament.

Marner did try snapping his fingers to conjure magic to destroy the threat or at least neutralize it for the time being, but because the element used was not his own, it failed. He didn’t know how long he was there trying to wedge a hand in the ground and pull himself forward, only to hurt himself because the spikes had embedded themselves in his muscles. All he knew was that some unmentionable amount of time later there were two lines of fresh dirt dug up from both hands and he was miserably entangled.

Time meandered by, his chosen distraction of glaring up at the ravens cawing above only interrupted when a hand wrought itself down and had interwoven itself in his hair. He’d been so deluged in his fantasies that the thunderous stepping had snuck up on him, fully announcing themselves as his neck was pulled up and strained to the fullest. Something felt terribly, terribly wrong. It was as though he was belly-deep in winter’s waters with minnows plucking at his toes as he remained submerged in a chilly berth.

His thighs quivered as he dared to look up, even if the sparking told him enough about their owner to have him sufficiently in ruin. Matthews stared down with no scrutiny nor pity, effortlessly in control and having harnessed the fruits of so many encounters without having to lift a finger.

“The cat’s cradled in his own trickery,” his voice boomed. “How amusing,”

“Hello Matthews,” he replied, chiding in with a bit of a sing-songy inflection he hoped would smooth the creases between them. Matthews didn't budge, his fingers still roping up the tufts he'd collected until they were hopelessly knotted.

“Marner,” he said. “I was hoping you’d slow down, we have much to discuss.” The hands in his hair wrenched back; in response, he yelped. The surprise made his legs slide back and rub against the tips of the thorns, blood beginning to well up as a result.

There was nowhere to go, to shapeshift would have him at the mercy of the weeds holding him captive. His smaller forms would be choked and something told him that Matthews wouldn’t fold as easily as he’d had last time. He’d be held upside down by the tail of whatever creature he posed as, he was sure of it.

The harsh petting was just that, petting, but the empty threat was still there. The nature of Matthews meant there was always a bite when he moved. It took less than a second of contact for the lightning coursing through his body transfer to Marner, shocking him into a series of hiccups as the beat of his heart was offset. Matthews didn’t subside as he went through the motions of inspecting his prize, going so far as to feel the globes of Marner’s shoulders and press into the bone.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” Matthews rumbled. “Too small.” Marner let out a terrified squeak, still running all the possible escape routes through his head on repeat. He couldn’t bear to look up when Matthews walked around, not bothering to cut him loose nor comfort him.

There was no stopping the look when Matthews’ fingers tilted his chin up and electricity bounced so vividly across his cheekbones that his eyes were rolling in his head. They connected again, the close view granting Marner a good look at the other man’s aged face and the sheer vigour carried inside of it. For the first time in memory, Matthews was smiling too. A good look on him, when he wasn’t so close to on-his-hands-and-knees Marner.

Matthews persisted, leaning in so close Marner had to rear his neck back to prevent coming in contact with him. “Now look at what you’ve got yourself into. All because you can’t keep your hands to yourself,” he said.

The hands on his chin slid up and cupped his face, the shocking now almost unbearable. It probably fried the saliva already in his mouth, his teeth already clattering because of the vivacity of Matthews’ power. Firsthand, it was tackling a bull with nothing but your bare hands. Matthews’ smile grew into a smirk, watered by seeing how Marner’s timid little pulls did nothing to free him.

“Matthews,” his voice was strained, “you don’t have to do anything, I mean, I had no intention of harming you or being a nuisance so if you let me go I’ll--” Matthews planted his lips on his, stopping him mid-speech.

There exploded a burst of voltage between them, so strong that it short-circuited his heart. In no time at all, it had turned his brain into mush as the electric current shared between them had his body breaking down into a series of sparkles.

**Author's Note:**

> smooch of death; dont worry he'll be back  
> come yell at me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!


End file.
